Murder on Page One (17 page)

‘Does Cilla live here?’ Flick asked, trying not to wince at the industrial-strength brew placed in front of her.

‘Yes. Her and Penny.’

‘Penny?’ Baggo asked.

Margaret smiled. ‘Her child,’ she said. ‘She’ll soon be three.’ She turned to Flick, woman to woman. ‘I’d thought Alan Trelawney, the father, favoured Penny, but it was Cilla who was pregnant. I was quite surprised when she called the baby after her sister. Though they were very close,’ she added quickly.

Flick asked, ‘What does Cilla do?’

‘She cleans. Offices, you know, and a couple of houses. She’ll be back soon. She picks up Penny from nursery on her way home.’

‘Does she write?’ Flick asked.

‘Why, yes. She does. Once Penny’s off to bed. She’s clever, you know. Would have had an Honours Degree from St Andrews University if she hadn’t got pregnant.’

‘What does she write about?’ Baggo asked.

‘Detective novels set in ancient Egypt. That was her subject at university. How did you know about her writing? Is this something to do with these literary agents getting murdered?’ Margaret sounded alarmed.

It was useless to deny it. ‘We’re asking a lot of questions of a lot of aspiring authors,’ Flick said. ‘Does Cilla have an agent?’

Margaret folded her arms. ‘I’d rather not answer any more, if you don’t mind. You can speak to Cilla when …’ She was interrupted by a shrill ‘Hellooo!’ As the front door clicked shut, a small, blonde girl ran into the room, waving a sheet of paper with twigs glued to it.

‘Peg, Peg, I done this!’ Penny thrust her work of art onto her grandmother’s knee.

Margaret put on her specs and gave it her full attention. ‘Very good, Penny, but what is it, love?’

‘It’s a tree! A winter tree. It hasn’t any leaves, see?’

‘Of course it is. Silly me.’

There was a moment of silence before Penny looked at Flick and Baggo, who were sitting on the sofa. She bowed her head away from them. ‘Who your friends, Peg?’ she whispered.

‘These are …’ At this point, Cilla came in and smiled vaguely at the officers. ‘Police,’ Margaret said with emphasis. She got up, took Penny’s hand and led her out. ‘Let’s get some juice, love,’ she said.

‘Bye, Penny. I liked your winter tree,’ Baggo said before Margaret closed the door behind her.

‘Do you want to see me?’ Cilla asked, searching the officers’ faces. Taller than her mother, she held herself well. Her light blue blouse and jeans were clean and neat and her darting eyes suggested both personality and intelligence. The picture did not do her justice, Baggo thought.

Flick soon got to the point. When she mentioned the agent murders, Cilla began to play with her hair, pushing it back from her face then twisting it. She said she had submitted material to all of the dead agents, and admitted she did not like the high-handed way they dealt with new writers. She had not yet persuaded an agent to represent her, but was cautiously optimistic about a female agent based in Manchester.

‘Do you go to London often?’ Baggo asked.

‘Do you suspect me?’ She pulled the right side of her mouth down, exaggerating the mannerism her mother had painted.

He replied, ‘We are questioning a lot of aspiring authors with a view to eliminating as many as possible.’

‘So the answer is yes, though there are “a lot” of others. What is “a lot”?’

Flick intervened. ‘You can’t expect us to tell you that, Ms Pargiter. The better you cooperate, the sooner we’ll leave you in peace.’

‘I hope you do. But I have to tell you, I’ve half-expected a visit. You see, I’ve been in London at the times of all the murders.’

Flick and Baggo exchanged glances. ‘You have?’ Baggo asked. ‘Why?’

‘Because I have friends in London. Mates who kept up with me after I dropped out of uni. And I take Penny to see her father. It so happens that the murders have all taken place on days I’ve been in town. Being a mystery writer, I notice that sort of thing.’

‘We’ll need a list of the places you’ve stayed at, please,’ Flick said.

‘I almost always stay with Lesley Mortimer. She has a flat in Islington.’

‘We’ll need Penny’s father’s name and address, too,’ Baggo said.

‘Alan Trelawney, Five Mosshill Court, St John’s Wood. He’s a Cornishman. And I’ve never stayed with him. He’s living with a nice Cockney girl who’s expecting any day soon, so please don’t trample there in your size fourteens.’

‘Personally, I have only size nines, so I trample with the utmost delicacy and discretion,’ Baggo said.

Cilla looked hard at him. He raised his eyebrows and she started to giggle. He held up his feet for her to inspect and that made her worse.

Flick drummed her fingers on her notebook. ‘Could we have the names and addresses of the friends you’ve seen in London, please?’

‘I’ll need my diary. Do I have your permission to leave the room?’

‘You don’t need my permission,’ Flick said coldly.

When the door closed, Flick turned on Baggo. ‘Just because she’s behaving in a childish way doesn’t give you an excuse, Chandavarkar,’ she hissed. ‘This is a murder inquiry.’

‘She giggled out of nerves. I’m only trying to get as much as possible out of her,’ Baggo muttered.

They sat in silence for nearly ten minutes. Both were wondering if Cilla had escaped by the back door when she re-entered and, with mock formality, handed a sheet of A4 to Flick. ‘Names, addresses, phone numbers and dates, as far as I can remember. But please don’t embarrass my friends. Some of them have landed pretty good jobs.’

‘We don’t upset people if we can help it,’ Flick said. ‘Thank you.’ For the next half hour they went through Cilla’s movements around the time of each murder. She did not have an alibi for any of them.

‘Lesley Mortimer seems happy to put you up. You’ve spent several nights with her, including a lot of Mondays,’ Flick commented.

‘She’s no housewife. I do a bit of cooking and cleaning for her, and I stay in for deliveries. Alan’s a chef. His hours are pretty anti-social, so usually he sees Penny on Sundays and Mondays, and I head north on Tuesdays.’

‘I liked the first chapter of your book,’ Baggo said, when they finished. ‘The priest is an intriguing character, and Hatshepsut was an amazing woman. One day I would like to read the rest.’

‘Thanks for that.’ Her eyes sparkled as she gave a broad, lop-sided smile. ‘Are you interested in ancient Egypt?’

‘Yes. The next time I go home to Mumbai, I hope to see the Valley of the Kings and the Valley of the Queens on the way.’

‘Well make sure you visit the Cairo Museum. It’s fantastic.’

Flick looked at her watch then phoned the taxi number. It arrived quickly and Cilla showed them out, giving Flick a brusque nod and Baggo another crooked smile.

‘Don’t chat up suspects,’ Flick said as the taxi drove off. The rest of their long journey was spent in silence, each of them thankful for the murder mysteries they had bought that morning at King’s Cross.

* * *

The next morning, Baggo was glad the sergeant was out of the office. She had irritated him with her cast-iron knickers act. He could tell her love life, if there was one, was not wonderful. Round the nick, she had a reputation for primness, and there was no hint of any lapse into ladetteishness. A few times he had heard her speak on the phone to someone called Tom, but her voice had been cold, their conversations matter-of-fact. There had been no whispered endearments, and she had ended one call looking as if she had just sucked a lemon. Her face was quite plain, he thought, but there was something attractive, and perhaps lively, underneath. She was interested in the extraordinary game called rugby, which looked to him like a legalised fight. A make-over, a few drinks and a shag would do her the world of good. He wished she would relax a bit more. She spent too much time in sergeant mode.

He had not consciously flirted with Cilla Pargiter, just made her relax. That was good police work, in his book. Why was life so difficult, particularly where women were concerned? His father, a consultant urologist at the Bedford Hospital, was determined that he should marry a girl from the Indian community, and a Brahmin at that. Two years earlier his sister, Shilpa, had put up no resistance to the marriage he had arranged for her with the son of a successful restauranteur. Baggo wondered if the boy was gay, but two years on they seemed settled together. Now his father was as desperate for a first grandchild as he was to find a bride for Bagawath. The previous weekend, he had paid one of his rare visits home to find a businessman, originally from Chenai, his wife and daughter there as well. The girl, Rani, had been pleasant, but equally resentful of the match-making attempt. Once they realised they both felt the same way, they got on like a house on fire. He wondered if her parents had been as disappointed as his when told exactly why they had hit it off so well. The truth of the matter was, Baggo found European girls, preferably blondes with fair complexions, fantastically attractive. He could not help it, and Cilla Pargiter ticked all his boxes. It was just a pity she was a suspect in a murder inquiry.

He consulted the list of her friends. Lesley Mortimer was clearly the one with whom to start. He phoned her mobile and they arranged to meet at a café near Covent Garden at one o’ clock.

* * *

Flick was apprehensive as she drove into Dogmersfield. Rachel Lawson had been very angry, with cause, and she was not someone to mess with. She parked the car, took a deep breath, and approached the front door. Rachel Lawson answered the bell without delay.

‘Please give me five minutes of your time, Mrs Lawson,’ Flick said quickly. ‘There are questions that have to be asked, and this is the easiest way, I assure you.’

‘Is that dreadful inspector with you?’

‘No. I’m alone.’

For a moment, Flick wondered if the door was going to be slammed in her face, but it opened wide and she stepped in.

‘Come into the kitchen, please. I don’t want my husband upset again,’ Mrs Lawson said, her tone peremptory.

It was clearly the hub of the house. An Aga occupied one wall, a pan of meat that had been browning sitting off the heat. Potatoes and carrots lay peeled beside the sink. On a busy work surface, dusty with flour, a casserole dish was ready to receive its contents. In the middle of the room, a well-used wooden table held assorted papers, a laptop and a phone.

Mrs Lawson cut through Flick’s apology for the previous visit. ‘Water under the bridge, but that inspector is an idiot and I will be lodging a complaint in due course. My husband is fine now, but the whole thing shook him up badly. Now, I thought you, or someone else, would be back, and as the dates of the murders have been well-publicised in the press, I have compiled a table showing our movements at the times in question. You will see that I can give you only my word for all except Ms Swanson’s murder, but for that morning I have a water-tight alibi. My husband underwent a minor surgical procedure, and I was at Fleet House Nursing Home with him all day. I have written down some of the people who will support me. If you decide to speak to them, I would be obliged if you were as discreet as possible.’

Taken aback, but also relieved, Flick stammered her thanks.

‘Not at all, officer,’ Mrs Lawson cut across her again. ‘I assume that is all. If so, please go.’

Flick could not remember being given so much information in such a short time, with such a lack of respect. She read the paper she had been handed then set the sat-nav for Fleet.

* * *

‘We called them the Geordie Girls,’ Lesley Mortimer said, speaking through a mouthful of bruschetta. ‘They went around together all the time and loved to party. They had loads of friends. Poor Cilla came back in third year, pregnant, with no Penny. It was so horrible. We couldn’t bear it. And she dropped out after a couple of weeks. I tried to talk her out of it, but she was so down. Actually, I was scared, if she stayed at uni, she might, you know. A lot of students do, like.’

‘I know,’ Baggo said. He saw that Lesley could talk for Britain. It would just be a question of keeping her on the right topic.

‘We kept in touch, of course. She even came up to St Andrews a couple of times in fourth year. She said it was to research her book, but we all knew she wanted some fun. I can’t imagine having a baby to think about all the time. She’s a great mum, of course. We all knew she would be. But you wanted to know about her coming up to London. Usually it’s a couple of times a month, depending on Alan’s shifts. He’s a chef, you know, at The Ritz. He was at some Jamie Oliver place in Cornwall when he met Cill. I keep looking for him on TV, but he hasn’t managed that yet. I couldn’t bear to try to cook with the nation watching. Actually, I can’t boil an egg, but you don’t need to when you’re an investment banker. You just need to be hard-boiled yourself.’ She gave a brief, horsey laugh.

‘Cilla’s mum’s great,’ she continued, ‘but I think Cill needs to get away from her. I don’t know, but I think there was a time when she blamed Cill for Penny’s death. Don’t know how she could. They were so close. It was a drowning accident, and the body wasn’t found. Cill doesn’t talk about it, and clams up when she’s asked. Don’t blame her, I suppose.’

Baggo nodded sympathetically.

‘I know these murders are terrible, but literary agents can be horrible. Cill has this really, really good novel. I’ve read it, and it’s miles better than half the stuff you see on the shelves. Yet she can’t even get an agent to show it to publishers. Of course she is hurt and angry. I know I’m in a dog-eat-dog world, but it’s not as bad as the literary world. I keep reminding her about all the great writers who’ve been rejected umpteen times, but it doesn’t cheer her up much.’